Physics
by Bagatelle
Summary: 4. Friction. I never thought anybody would love me enough to let me touch them like this, least of all him. I always thought that he just wanted to be my friend. And I was always afraid, for that same reason. Corn x Soda stories.
1. Inertia

This first part was written as a sequel to another fic I've written, entitled "Gravity", which will be posted as chapter 2 of this once I type it up again. I feel bad about having all these one-shots lying around, so I decided to group these two (and any more Corn/Soda fanfiction that I write around this theme) together.

What a weird pairing, lol. Don't worry, this will make almost complete sense, even without reading "Gravity" first.

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**Inertia**

A Jet Set Radio Future fanfiction by Bagatelle

Cigarette smoke hangs thick in the air, motionless, like a shadow on this hot day, burning with his breath and his body. I inhale, too: taste the familiar flavor of fire, and sigh. He's stretched out on the roof of an old Isuzu, the red paint peeling, rusting, a flattering contrast of bronze under the pale skin of his bare torso. His loose hair hangs in his eyes, sticks to his neck. Bruises and scars litter his body, and he looks so wild when he's unkempt like this. Untamed. Free. Like a Rudie _should_ be.

I'm sitting, cross-legged, on the hood of that same Isuzu, watching the smoke from his cigarette dance its alien waltz in the suffocating summer air. My jacket is long since abandoned, lying beside his in the shady dirt under the car, but my face is still flushed from the heat, my shirt stuck to my sweating back and shoulders. I'd never take it off, though, and he knows damn well why. Not even he, my oldest friend, can see me like that. He stretches, doesn't look at me as he brandishes the cigarette in my direction, and his ribs nudge against his skin, reminding me that I need to get a better job. I take the cigarette as it ashes on my bare foot, and there's a weird tingling for an instant, then nothing. I lock my lips around the paper and suck in, heaving sour clouds out of my nose, and watching my own ugly reflection in the shattered windshield of the car. I don't look how I remember: maybe I'm different without my hat, though. Maybe I don't look as good as I thought I did, when I'm hot and sweaty and have a headache. I push my hair up off of my neck with my free hand, and grunt. Pass him his cigarette back. I don't like the taste much, but I'm cemented to it.

He bites the cigarette, and I see his tongue trace the rim of the filter out of the corner of my eye. He's like that, I guess. _Weird_. He's always been. I don't think it's a bad thing. Hell, it's kinda nice, every once in a while. Everyone else tries so hard to be _normal_. No one else is quite as much of a nonconformist as he is…even me. And I'll admit it. I'm not ashamed to admit I still have work to do. He breathes, spits, and the cigarette is gone. And it's just him and I, and the sun is setting, now, slowly. He folds his hands under his half-bald head, fascinated by the sky as colors other than dull blue bleed into it from the horizon. I watch him for minutes that feel like seconds. His breathing is that slow. Mine, too.

Usually I'm more coherent than this. I realize suddenly that I have no idea what I'm thinking about, and I'm baffled for a moment, noticing the pink of the sky and remembering that it's getting dark. His mouth is moving. What's he saying? Something bold. Something rude. He laughs and wipes his mouth, and when I'm still silent, staring dumbly at the side of his face, he turns and looks at me. He's more handsome than people think, I say to myself, already knowing the strong slope of his nose, and the angry set of his jaw. His eyes are small, but powerful: glinting, sandy, golden, brass, diamond. I can't even tell, anymore. His mouth moves again, and I still don't hear, but I nod. What am I thinking? Where am I?

Aching, burning in my brain from the nicotine.

He cocks his eyebrows at me, knows I don't understand him. What is it with me and not knowing anything, these days? I used to have every answer. I used to know what he meant by everything. Now it's all double meanings and bullshit, though: something forceful, something soft, teasing, irritating, annoying, crushing. His voice scoops out my insides, and I feel pulpy and weak, shivering, upset, but satisfied. He tells me I sometimes make him feel like he's freefalling. I guess that's a good thing. When we have time, or something. When we have space. He tells me he's glad he knows me. He's _so_ glad.

I remember being littler, quieter. And I remember him being just as reserved, only less curious and maybe more depressed. I don't recall him ever smiling, when we were younger. He makes up for it now, I suppose, laughing with me, but I barely see it through his jacket, and he scowls his ass off when we're with the rest of the gang. Like he doesn't want the rest of them there. Like he only gives a shit about _him_, and about _me_. About _us._ Is that supposed to flatter me? Maybe it does, a little. I'm just numb right now, stupid, watching his hand smear a handprint along a big chunk of undamaged windshield. I can't tell if I'm smiling. I thought being a GG was about caring about _everybody's_ well-being. I thought that was what Beat and Gum and I were going for when we started this fuckin' gang. I guess Soda might care more than he acts. He was a bastard when we were younger, too, after all. To _me._

A little.

I think.

His fingertips are heavy and leave dark spots on the windshield, either because they're dirty or the windshield is. I recognize that pressure, when he runs his hand over the spot again. I've seen those marks before. His knuckles are thick, and have kneaded skin, yes, in a punch, in a fistfight, with Clutch, with Garam, Poison Jam. His fingers have relaxed and swum through hair, grabbed at arms, touched a mouth. He doesn't look like a tender guy. He told me once that he's glad for that. That he doesn't want to ruin the surprise for everyone else. And he laughed at that, like it was supposed to be funny. I don't really think it was. But then again…I _know._ It ain't a surprise, for me.

He's watching me watch his fingers. Casually, he reaches up and nudges my bangs out of my face with his middle finger, and I see more of him, splayed out on the car's roof, instead of just his hand. He looks good when he's stretching. Like he's posing for something. I don't even know what. I could never look that good, though. Not even if I tried.

I don't get why girls don't check him out. I guess it might be because of his huge jacket, and how pissed off he always looks. He's kinda creepy, sometimes. If they could see him like this, though, they'd be all over him. He's better-looking than Beat. Better-proportioned. And not with creepy pants. I'd never say that to Gum, though. She'd fuckin' kill me. She's already pissed at me for coming out here and hanging out with Soda like I do. She told me I should make a _real_ friend, like Yoyo or somebody. Or get a girlfriend. She says I'd look good with Jazz.

…I love Yoyo, really. And Jazz is a great girl. But they ain't the same as Soda is. Gum just doesn't know. She _can't_ know. It ain't her fault.

I think about freefalling when Soda moves his knees out in front of himself and slides down the windshield, cracking it even more. He glides and closes his eyes, rakes his fingers through his hair and starts tying it up, again. What's that thing…something will keep on moving until it runs into something else…or it won't start going anywhere until somebody runs the fuck into it. Inertia, I think. That makes me think of him. Of us. He was always frantic before this started, these hangouts, and I was always sitting still. He ran the fuck into me. Set me in motion. We keep going back and forth, though…I don't know if that's allowed, or if it doesn't even matter. We keep hanging out. And my world keeps stopping, going, stopping, going. I imagine a blue marble, spinning, and when it stops, I have to spin it again to get it moving. For shit to happen to me. Not that it doesn't already. But for the good shit to happen.

To freefall.

This place is dark. Blue-gray-purple. His hand is suddenly on my shoulder, running down my arm, feeling with that middle finger. His breath is warm, but it makes my neck feel better, gently urging sticky hairs to break loose and move. The tip of his tongue runs up my throat, as delicate as it was with the cigarette filter, and he kisses my earlobe and breathes a word in my ear. I hear it, this time. _Tab_, he says. It's a familiar word. Not my name anymore, but it was, once upon a time. That was Gum's name for me. My first Rudie nickname. The boy that a boy named Montgomery Heat met on the stoop of an orphanage all those years ago. The boy who bought shoes for Monty with stolen money. Shoes that were too big.

My throat tightens when his teeth run down my skin, slick and clean. His nose is cold on my sweaty neck, big hands, not unlike my own, feeling under my shirt, touching what I'm hiding. He knows it's there, even though I always cover it up. His fingertips trace each line, his palms spread over puckered skin, and he's kissing me with his hands, and I'm kissing back. I stare into the distance at the darkening sky and trace my knuckle over his Adam's apple: feel him swallow, hear him say that word again. It's so fuckin' weird. His mouth brushes my collarbone, my arms holding my shirt firmly on. _Tab_, he whispers. Nobody's called me that in two…three years. But he says it like it's still who I am, and it feels okay, the more I think about it. The more he runs his mouth up my cheek.

I suddenly realize that my hands are clutching at the waist of his pants, shaking, the knuckles white, I'm grabbing so hard. I don't like to let him know how much I enjoy him doing this…not always, anyway…and I'm nervous, now, for some reason. His eyes press into mine, and he's laid back, relaxed, happy. I close mine again. His mouth says _Corn_ against my lips, and it feels more natural, but it sends a chill down my back when I feel his lips tense and pucker around the O. It's only for half a second, and I'm shaking for minutes afterward, breathless. He does this to me. God, not often enough.

The hood of the car shudders under us as we roll toward the edge, suddenly dropping off and into the dirt. He grunts when he lands on his back, and sounds like he hurt himself, but he's okay, he mutters, and jerks me down into the dirt instead. I don't care. It's all through my hair, and I don't give a shit. The important thing is breathing. Remembering to breathe. _It's the same for this as it is with skating_, I remind myself. _Use your nose._

He smells like car exhaust and cigarettes.

…I used to want to be with Gum. Back when the GG's first got started…when I was still Tab…I had the biggest thing for her. She used to be a sweet girl, underneath all that toughness. And we really cared for each other. But about two years ago, she scared the hell out of me when she told me that she knew I liked her in that way. And I couldn't lie to her. She's always been able to see right through me. So I told her the truth…and she kissed me on the spot.

We fucked around a few times. We were young, though, and she didn't want it like I did. When she broke off, she told me she had just wanted to see what it was like. I was nineteen. She was seventeen. She liked Beat, she said. She wanted to be with him. I was good, but I wasn't…_that_ good. A whole shitload of reasons. I knew the biggest one, though…the one she didn't say. I could always see it in her face.

_You're ugly, Corn._

_And if I keep fucking you, I might get pregnant and have your ugly baby._

That wasn't so long ago. But she still tries to get involved with me: tries to push me to any other girl, like she's afraid that I'm still in love with her. 'Cause she can see it: I am in love. But she can't see that it's not with _her_. She bitches to me about hanging out with Soda because she knows he talks shit about her. He doesn't so much, though, and when he does, it's just about how she broke my heart. He thinks it's funny, even though he doesn't say it. Not that I was broken, but that _he_ was my rebound. Gum's polar opposite. If she knew we were together, he says, she'd feel like complete shit, 'cause she hates him so much. I think, bitterly, that that's the only reason she'd feel like shit.

She's with Beat now. And I've heard them together, and he doesn't sound like such a great fuck.

God.

Soda's chest smells like sweat and dirt. He's breathing shallowly against me, and I'm panting, too, my face flushed, my whole body hot. He reaches under the car for my bag, 'cause he knows I keep water in there, and he pulls the bottle out and hesitates before unscrewing the top and pressing it to my lips. It's warm, but I don't care. He drinks some too and dribbles a little on his hand, reaching down and shocking me when he touches the deep inside of my thigh. I wasn't expecting that. But he looks away, embarrassed, when he sees how surprised I look. I know what he's doing. Like a gentleman. He rubs his stomach next with the water, and I lay back in the dirt and think about the sunrise, and how beautiful it always looks up north from the rooftops of the Skyscraper District. About how he told me I was more breathtaking than that. Who knew he was such a Romantic? Maybe that was a part of the surprise.

I feel at rest, again. He's in a deep motion, now, though, as he sets the water aside and zips my pants back up, ignoring how dazed I am. _I felt it_, I want to say. _I was there with you. I heard you say my name._ I did hear that. I heard him groaning, and I heard myself choking and wheezing below him. Remembering Gum, and what a bitch she was to me. The sex is better now that the feeling is mutual, I know. That's not the only reason, but it comforts me. Soda pushes my bangs back with his wet hand and looks at my eyes, frowning. He doesn't think I'm ugly. _Yours is a secret beauty_, he said, though not with such pretty words. _You can't tell how good you look unless you KNOW_, he said. Know what? I guess I _don't_. But I guess it's not really all that important, in the long run.

_I_ think that _he's_ handsome. No one else does.

Fuck them.

He runs his fingers over my big lips, and I know he's moving fast inside, frantic, racing, breathing. His eyes are trembling, bumps rising on his skin, over his arms and his chest. There's a tiny tattoo under his armpit, on his ribs, that I hardly ever notice. An arrow, pointing up. That's the way he wants to go, he says, if he ever moves fast enough. When his soul breaks free from his body. He wants to go up, if there's anything there. My hand reaches up and touches the tattoo, and I know my face must be sad, 'cause of the way he looks at me. The sun is long gone, now, and his eyes glow in the dim moonlight. _Corn_, he whispers again, leaning down and pressing his open mouth to mine. I taste fire, salt, tobacco.

I never thought I could be so happy…just being still.


	2. Gravity

In actuality, part one of the Physics saga.

I apologize for any glaring spelling problems or other typos throughout this part (if there are any): I had to re-type this whole part from a printoff after a power issue with my old computer couldn't be resolved. Grr. Anyway, enjoy, and as always, reviews are much-loved and paid for with more insane stories.

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**Gravity**

A Jet Set Radio Future fanfiction by Bagatelle

The sunrise, when viewed from the top of the Skyscraper District, is always amazing. Colors burst from the edge of the world so suddenly out of the black, like a rainbow apocalypse. It cascades over metal and shines on the black street, eternities below. I've watched this phenomenon hundreds of times in my past, inspired into a state of pure awe by its beauty and its perfection. Today I see a tall figure—a long, lumpy silhouette of a man—twisting against the sun in the distance, like a cat on a bed, writhing and bathing in warm, young light. He shouts when he leaps from building to building, satisfied with his tricks, drawing ever closer to me to come full circle and to a stop. His cheeks are red, sweat trickling down his head from exertion and adrenaline, and the color in his face clashes awfully with his hair, tightly pulled out of his eyes. His fierce nose grapples over the collar of his turtleneck jacket. This is an ugly man, a frightening man. One that I've known for many years. This is a cruel-hearted son of a bitch, a devil, a monster among other men.

…This is the man…that I am in love with.

He skids to a halt in front of me and leans down against his knees, panting to catch his breath. I can catch the wheezes on his inhales, struggling from all his years of smoking Marlboros after meals. His knees are shaking, barely supporting his weight, and the bottom of his jacket is riding up his back a little. I stay back and look away from him, holding my hand up to shield my eyes from the elegance of the sun. Isn't that just like life, I think to myself…to give us things too beautiful to look at, and things so ugly we can't look away? Pink and gold dance over my companion as he rights himself and turns slowly around, joining me in staring into the bright star of day. I would say something poetic, but he would laugh coldly at me. I have not once looked at him and failed to see some degree of hellfire in his gaze. And I have never, ever in my life seen him smile.

Nor do I ever expect to.

I wasn't paying attention. He just said something, I don't know what about, and he's turning to me now like he expects an answer. I look back, my mind blank, and his pupils dilate, away from the light. He reaches up with big, gnarled fingers and hooks one over his collar, pulling it down so that I can see his mouth and the sharp angle of his jaw. There's an ugly green bruise on the left side of his chin: something he got from a fight with one of Poison Jam's boys, he told me, but I know he was lying about that. I know what really happened, and he'll never find out that I do.

His eyes narrow. He's pissed that I haven't answered him, and he reaches out and shoves me a little: just enough to be harsh. I look down and do nothing physical in response, knowing that it would only aggravate the situation if I did. And he gets bored of being mad and glares off at the sunrise again, a glowing bomb of rebirth on the horizon of this dead wasteland of steel and flesh. An angel in our graveyard.

I breathe, my hands working into and out of the shapes of fists at my sides, like they're looking to hold onto something. _Can't it make him happy?_ I beg an unknown force, my eyebrows furrowing under the visor of my hat. Couldn't anything make him happy…? He's always bored, always uninterested in the things that life offers him. I've never seen him passionate about anything besides skating. Which is one of the reasons why I brought him out here with me today. He told me he'd never seen the sun rise. He'd never seen the birth of color, the awakening of the Earth. I told him that he needed to watch it with me sometime, and he came with me the next damn day, 'cause, as he explained it to me…he was bored.

We rode the perilous rails of Pharaoh Park to get up here, to the tops of these seventy-five-story pillars of industrialism, and we collapsed in the bed of a satellite dish and stared at the barely-night sky. We lay still for about a quarter of an hour, watching the stars glimmering in the bruise of purple atmosphere above us, in absolute silence save our strained breaths and the distant calls of the city below. I recognized Gemini, Orion, Venus, and he shifted beside me, turning his head and looking at me as I examined the stars. Eventually my chest tightened, and I had to look back, into the cold yellow orbs that were watching me so intently. His eyebrows were lowered, his hair curling in floppy tails against the metal of the dish bed. Stars weren't so remarkable, he said. They were just like Christmas lights: if you've seen them once, you've seen them a million times. They weren't worth the fuss.

He was the devil, in that instant: fire dancing black all around him, icy vicious and cruel. But I wasn't afraid…only confused. I had no idea why he was so angry: I still don't. I've known this man for over six years, and I know almost nothing about him, other than the fact that I can't look at him without feeling something burst inside of me and strike me into weakness and heavy breathing. And the fact that he has no idea that I feel this way.

He grunted beside me and pulled out a cigarette, inclining his neck and holding it firmly between his lips as he lit it, to let the smoke drift up in an obscure line perpendicular to his face. The muscles in his neck and jaw were tense, keeping his treasure from falling into the abyss that he felt was below us, and his eyes closed and mine caressed the rugged line of his throat, hardly visible above the collar of his turtleneck. I stared at his bruise, then, and thought about it coldly.

…He doesn't know that I can see how afraid he is of the police. Of _any_ kind of law, of any restriction that the world tries to hold over him. He is a man beyond boundaries, beyond rules and policies, 'cause he doesn't want to be kept out of anything that might intrigue him. He fights like no one else I've ever seen when the cops are called on him: especially when he thinks he's alone, 'cause he knows that there's no one there to _help_ him fight. Twenty troopers pile on top of him, kicking him and beating him, and he's by himself, the only one who can save his own ass. He's vicious, though: he kicks in the face and breaks fingers to get away. Usually he can walk away generally unscathed. But three days ago…he came home with blood dripping out of his nose, clutching his arm like somebody had twisted it, and limping. _Poison Jam_ was his excuse, but I could see, through the shame in his eyes, that it was a lie. It had been the cops. More than usual, though…more than he could handle. Maybe thirty, forty guys, I thought…guys with weapons. Guys who wanted to take him in, dead or alive. He's become notorious around Shibuya-cho, after all: the press sees him as the leader of the GG's, 'cause he's the one who tags the most out of all of us. The one who causes the most trouble in the city. They want him gone. And he doesn't want to admit that the thought of that scares the hell out of him.

_He must've panicked_, I thought to myself as he lay there, smoking. _He must've frozen, and…he just couldn't protect himself._ They had gotten to him, obviously: managed to get in quite a few good blows before he had twisted away. He had been scared, the day after: too scared to go out, though he hid it behind the lie of a migraine. He lay in his room all day and stared at the wall, didn't even eat when I brought him food. I wanted to tell him something to calm his nerves, but I couldn't think of the right thing to say. I spent a few minutes just standing there, staring at his back, and eventually he snapped at me to get the fuck out of his room. I left him alone. But then yesterday, I had invited him to see the sunrise with me, and he came with me today, I suppose, to prove to himself that he was still as badass as he had been before.

But when it finally happened…he didn't watch. He skated around and leapt from roof to roof, screaming satisfaction, instead. And it was over by the time he had looked. Maybe that was why he was pissed now, I thought…'cause he had missed it. But I would take him back up there as many times as he needed until he saw it. I was willing to give him this. I _wanted_ to give him this. 'Cause if it worked, as I was hoping it would…it would make him happy, at last.

He grimaces out of nowhere and rubs his bruised jaw self-consciously, making me turn to look at him. I tilt my hat back so that he can see my eyes, 'cause I know I'm softer that way. His eyes don't meet mine, but the color in his face deepens.

"…Corn," he says pensively: my name, instead of just "dude". That's where he stops, though, and trails off meaninglessly into the morning. I watch him carefully, concerned, and I see my hand reach out, asking for a cigarette. He gives me one and puts one in his own mouth, too, gesturing for me to touch the tip of mine to his and lighting us both at the same time. I stay close to him for longer than he expects, but he pulls his goggles down before he looks at me, so that I can't see his eyes anymore. His hot cheeks suck in around the paper, streams of smoke wisping out of his nostrils. He can't say anything, and he doesn't want to. I breathe smoke upward, feel it clip my visor and ricochet into my eyes. They burn, but I don't' wipe the tears away, 'cause I don't want him to think I'm suddenly a pussy, like I used to be when we were just kids. He bows his head.

…He told me once that he doesn't believe in gravity. 'Cause it's a law of physics, I suppose, and he's not bound by anything. Nothing of his is restricted, there are no limits to his power over himself. He could fly, if he wanted to, he said. In fact, he might trip one day and just fall up: fall into the sky, and Reason would fail and he would be king of his castle at last. When he talks like that, it makes me smile: not 'cause it only makes sense to me in the furthest reaches of my dreams, but 'cause he's so damn serious about it, and he really does feel that way. He's smart, I know. Smarter than most of our other friends. But he focuses too much on digging deeper into what he _wants_ to be the truth, instead of what actually _is_. I think that's one of the reasons why he's so angry all the time. One of the reasons why nothing in life impresses him.

I sit down suddenly in the center of the satellite dish: so abruptly that it startles him into dropping his cigarette. It falls, blown by the wind off of the side of the dish, and I know it's falling but he doesn't believe in that. The pink and gold has faded into pale pollen-yellow, sprinkled in his hair and on his face like the stars I was so fixated on an hour ago. His lips are pursed, like he's still trying to hold the cigarette in place between them. And he lowers himself to his knees and steadily leans forward to look into my face. I don't brush my bangs out of my eyes, 'cause I don't want him to see how bloodshot they are. He chuckles but doesn't smile, shocking me when he reaches out, fast as lightning, and pulls my cigarette out of my mouth, putting it greedily in his, instead.

He clenches it between his front teeth and snarls at me, his teeth off-white from smoking, his eyes black behind his goggles. I lie down and act like I don't care: close my eyes, smirk. He says something else, mumbling around the paper between his lips, and I guess I find it funny, 'cause I laugh and nod my head. He grunts a laugh, too, smoke billowing out, and it sounds like he's satisfied with my response. He finishes the cigarette and lays himself beside me, closer than he was before the sun. I keep my eyes closed, but I'm seeing so much more than I ever could with them open.

He says that sunrises…aren't so remarkable. But his breaths are unsteady, dancing past my ear. And each gasp seems nearer than the last, his shoulder digging into mine with some form of intention unbeknownst to me. I breathe just as waveringly.

"…What?" I ask, my voice strained. I can't remember what I was laughing at twenty seconds ago…but he seems to have that effect on me. His chest heaves, and he turns a little, pulling his goggles up but keeping his eyes closed. His nose touches my neck, and he says something about how it will take me a million and one guesses to realize what he finds beautiful. When I think, I choke out a nervous laugh and tell him that he's forgetting himself, and he replies that, no…he always, _always_ remembers.

And for once in my life, I understand him the first time.

I tell him what he thinks is my million and first guess, and his hands are shaking when they touch my face in approval of my answer. The sunrise is nothing amazing, compared to him, and I guess he feels the same way about me. It makes my heart sing in off-key rapture. His breath is warm and smells like tobacco when he presses into me, his lips still firm and hard when they brush my eyelids, though the action itself is soft. Tears from my cigarette trickle out against my will, and he stares at me when he tastes salt on my skin, his eyes full and brazen. I wipe liquid away. He thinks I'm crying, but I'm not. A part of me thinks I should be, though.

I want to tell him that he doesn't have to be afraid of law: that just 'cause rules exist, it doesn't mean that he has to live by them. He lies on top of me and is surprisingly light, for his size: his jacket makes him look bigger than he really is…not like Yoyo, who wears his just to cover up. It's all illusions and fantasies, with him. Yoyo is much simpler. Which is, I guess, why girls like Yoyo so much, and why no one else in the world finds _this_ man as fascinating as I do. I like a little bit of mystery, to life. When I was a kid, I always played with jigsaw puzzles, instead of yo-yos or video games. 'Cause you can master everything else. Puzzles are always different, and there's no way to cheat at them.

He likes puzzles, too. He says he cheats at them, though, and I don't know how that works.

…He asks me, as he's looking down into my face, if I think it's gonna hurt to die. I'm caught off-guard, but I answer him anyway: tell him that, no…it might hurt in the time leading _up_ to dying, but…that death itself…will be peaceful and comfortable. He's quiet for an extended period, the wind missing us above the rim of the satellite, howling like some terrible beast, and his eyes tell me that he hurts all the time. I let my gloved hands rest on his chest, and his jacket is plush: lined, like winter. It never snows here, but I wish it would. His chest is trembling, and I have no clue what he's so scared of. It's just me. He _knows_ me.

I wonder, suddenly, if gravity is something other than physics, to him. If maybe it has something to do with dying, instead. Maybe gravity is a force trying to pull us into Hell…and if we escape it, if we fly…we'll go to Heaven. He says that he's atheist, but it's saddening, to think that he feels that way. That he's trying to exempt himself from gravity—from Hell—by saying it doesn't exist. Maybe he thinks he's gonna go to Hell, if he suddenly starts saying that it's there, 'cause then he'd be admitting that he might go there. He probably would, actually. He's done a lot of bad shit in his lifetime. Even _I_ look a him as a demon, sometimes. I guess he thinks that about himself, too.

I wrap my arms around his torso and feel him fall limp against me, shivering like he's freezing even though it's warm up here. It's like he's afraid of me understanding him. He twists his neck around until he's got his mouth hidden behind his turtleneck again, his breath blocked from that space just under my ear. He's never been one for intimacy of this breed, but it's okay. I'm glad just to hold him.

…He used to ask me, all the time, how I felt about the girls in our group. Why I never asked any of them out. My answer was always the same: _they're just my friends. I don't want it to be like that._ He pressured me about Gum a lot, mostly 'cause they hate each other as much as they do. I guess he _wanted_ me to date her…so that he would have an excuse to despise _me,_ too. For some reason, he loves to hate people. Even the people he cares about. I guess 'cause it's easier to say you hate somebody than it is to say you love them. Less shit goes down.

And besides…_hating_ is still _caring_. So he's actually giving a shit, in some twisted way, which is all that he feels he's obligated to do.

He doesn't have an excuse to hate me, though. I've been nice to him ever since we were little: twelve and thirteen, anyway. He used to feel more, back then. He used to cry a lot, just like me. But he left me when he was sixteen and went to find his sister, and when he came back about eight months later to join the GG's, he was colder, moodier…angrier. He said he hated her, but he was lying. I never found out if he had actually come across her again or not, 'cause he never wanted to talk about her again. At that point, he used to tell me that he hated me, too, but whenever he said it, there was never any fire in his eyes. He never meant it. He just didn't want to tell me that he loved me, 'cause maybe it would have hurt him too much: broken off too big a piece of his heart for me to take. It didn't bother me. He had told me that he loved me on the day that he left me, and that was consolation enough. I've known it all these years. But I was too afraid to ever say it to him again, 'cause I wasn't sure if what he really felt was love, or if it was…_love._

…He presses his eyes into my neck uncomfortably, maybe to keep from weeping. He doesn't like being this close: it makes him nervous, makes him feel vulnerable. But he _wants_ to be, 'cause he needs that physicality to feel like he's connected to me: like he's not just dreaming this all up, back home in his filthy bed. It's comforting to me for that reason, too, 'cause I've had dreams like this before. Only…he was never shaking.

…He doesn't want anyone to know, he whispers, his voice so quiet I can't tell if it's scared or not. His hand rests on my belt, thumbing my thin waist, and he says that no one would understand. No one else knows us like we know each other. It's the truth. I run my fingers over the bald back of his head: make him tense a little against me. He's the only one who knows anything real important about the way I think, and I'm the only one who knows nearly the whole story behind his past. He knows I'm soft, on the inside. I know he can be funny, when he wants to be. Our fingers find each other between our bodies, and his touch is gentle, almost _affectionate._ I like the way our fat knuckles clench against each other without us really trying to make them do that. It's just a side-effect of masculine hands, I suppose.

…He starts rocking me slowly against the metal bed of the satellite dish, and it feels like we're slow-dancing. He has a romantic soul, I think to myself, even though he would most likely deny any connection to such emotions. His eyes have burst against my neck, and I try to soothe him with gentle words, promising that I will never tell a single person. He doesn't sob: he's not one to _sob_, daresay. He's a much quieter crier now than he ever used to be, though, that's for certain. He mumbles a thank you, but it's very weak behind his emotions, spilling out through the floodgates like I've turned some kind of key within him. The sun is intense above us, shining through our angle in the satellite dish, and we've been out here too long.

_Maybe_, I think, _this was not supposed to happen._

_Maybe that's why he's so terrified._

I look away from him, up toward the bluing sky, and I let my fingers gingerly rub tears off of his face. He kneads his knuckles into my chest, trying to hold on, trying not to let his happy feelings slip away. My heart soars, to know that he is happy at long last. But he's difficult, and he shies away when my lips touch his forehead, flushing madly. He's intimidated by me, he says: a strange truth, one that almost makes me laugh. He looks up to me: wants to be like me. I've always been there for him, always tried to show him the light, but he never really paid attention, before. Now, though, he wants to be someone that I'll be able to let love as he will, and not force any "inconveniences" upon him ("inconveniences" being…gestures such as this kiss I've just given him). He wants to be the one who decides when we do what, 'cause, he says, sometimes he feels like there's someone there, watching, even when there's not.

…I agree with him, even though I know, that presence that he's always sensed before…was really there. It's always been me, I want to say, but it might make him angry. I've spent so much time stalking him, instead of telling him how I felt…what a waste of life, he would say, and turn away from me. So I let him have his paranoia, even though it's an "inconvenience" to me. He glances to the left for a long moment before he closes his eyes and softly touches his lips to mine, giving me what he knows I want from him. His mouth is surprisingly gentle: nowhere near as firm as it always seems. And blood rushes all through me when he pushes a little harder against me and digs his teeth affectionately into my lower lip. It's so good that it's a little creepy, like he's been practicing late at night for weeks with some unknown substitute. Or maybe he, my best friend, is just a good kisser, and _I'm_ the deluded fool.

That would make more sense…to _me_, anyway.

He strokes my jaw with two fingers, not looking, just breathing me in, and I am so weak. I choke out some soft word of awe, to let him know that he has me captivated. He laughs in such an infectious way, opens his eyes to show me his soul…and when he smiles, he shines brighter than the sun, and I feel like I'm flying.


	3. Oscillation

For those who didn't know:

_Oscillation: a motion that repeats itself in a regular cycle._

Part three of the Physics saga. Written on a whim. Got the idea on a car ride. **FYI: THE POINT OF VIEW IN THIS CHAPTER IS _BEAT_**.

Hyeenjoy.

* * *

**Oscillation**

A Jet Set Radio Future fanfiction by Bagatelle

Since three Wednesdays ago.

Every night, they leave.

Alone. _Together_.

It's not normal. It's suspicious. I don't like it. I don't know why. They're best friends, Corn says: not to me, because he usually finds it painful to talk to me, but to anyone else who asks him why Soda only ever says anything to him. "We've known each other for seven years," he says with a weird smile, like that closes the case. "He just…doesn't like other people."

_Why not?_ Is the appropriate question. Often asked. But Corn just shrugs.

"I don't know. He just doesn't." Is always his response.

The next appropriate question is _what about Gum? She's known him just as long as you have._ But no one ever asks it. Probably because it's common knowledge that she and Soda despise each other, for reasons that only she, he, and Corn seem to fully understand. I get it most of the way—apparently he was a real dick to her when they were younger—but there are still bits that I don't understand. Like why he's so sensitive about her talking to Corn. Even _talking_ to him. And if she touches his arm or hugs him, I'll always see him and Corn whispering frantically behind some corner somewhere, two seconds later: hidden, trying not to let anyone see. Like it's some kind of private party. I don't get it. It's fuckin' irritating. What the hell do they have to talk about that's so important that it's gotta be kept under fuckin' lock and key? That's all I want to know.

So, one night, late, _late_, almost three in the morning, I follow them out. Fifty feet behind them, I'm there when they go out to Pharaoh Park and grind the rails up into the Skyscraper District, with Corn laughing and shouting some shit I can't hear. I have to be careful to keep myself out of view, which is hard in the bright plaza of Pharaoh Park, but we quickly make our way up onto the rooftops of the Skyscraper District, and it's eerily quiet up here, with only distant echoes of cars on Earth so far below us, and some idiot's bad music twiddling out of his window a few floors down. Corn and Soda pick a skyscraper that they like and sit down on the edge of it, daring. Soda swings his legs over the edge, and Corn sits Indian-style, looking up at the yellow-black, polluted sky, at the ghost of the waning moon overhead.

He smiles. I'm crouching behind an air duct, straining to listen. I can hear him surprisingly well. "…The moon looks nice tonight, huh?"

"I don't care for it." Soda. What an asshole. But Corn snickers.

"Yeah…I know. Just thought I'd point it out." It's odd, to me, that they're not skating. Nothing is happening. And I realize, all of a sudden, that they didn't bring any paint with them. They're not here to tag. What's going on…?! Corn hunches his shoulders and looks down into the city. "…You want to get some sushi or something after this? Dorado Chicken?"

"I don't know. Maybe." Soda looks up at the moon, like he's considering it, now, for some reason. "…You're hungry?"

"Always. You know me. Gotta keep my lips fat."

"So _that's_ where it all goes, huh?"

"Apparently."

"…You're right."

I have to backtrack for a second to figure out what that last comment means, but Corn seems to understand almost immediately. "…Yeah?" he asks.

"Yeah," Soda says. "I don't really look at the moon anymore, you know? I've got better shit to do."

Oh. The moon. Corn is beaming. It's kind of weird to see him look so happy. I guess because I've never really seen him smile like that, before. I crouch lower and squint to get a better look at the two of them. Soda's looking down at Corn, and I'm surprised to realize that I can see his mouth. His jacket is unbuttoned, down to the neck. His nose doesn't look so big, when it's not hooked over the edge of his collar…Corn sighs. "…Like what?" he asks, a little delayed, but neither of them care.

Soda isn't exactly smiling, but he's giving off this weird vibe of being happy that I can't really explain. "Like noticing other shit," he replies. His cheeks darken a little, and I cling to my air vent precariously. "…Like…how you looked good, yesterday."

Corn's smile gets bigger. "…I did?" he asks quietly. Soda is obviously having a small amount of trouble.

"…When we tag-team raced down Chuo Street…and you cut Garam off at the last second…" Soda recounts, and I try to remember. "…The way you jumped over the finish line…epic."

Corn laughs. That's another thing I've never heard properly, before. His laugh is…almost soothing. Weird. I'm staring at the two of them, trying to absorb everything. "Thanks," he says, chuckling. Soda looks a little frustrated with himself for a moment, then he leans closer to Corn in a way that makes my throat clench. Their shoulders are pressed tightly together, their faces about an inch apart. I have to strain to hear what Soda says next, barely conscious over the embarrassed pounding of my heart.

_Woah._

_Shit._

_Is he…?_

"…Corn…" Soda murmurs, and Corn's goofy grin eases down into a gentle smile, the edge of his thumb suddenly running down Soda's temple, over his cheek. I shouldn't be here. Jesus Christ,_ I shouldn't be here…! _Corn is breathing slowly. I recognize that, somehow. It's a very distinct pace. Like how Gum always breathes, right before she kisses me. I stop. My face is burning. Shit, and I can't sit still…I want to run, but as long as I'm here, I have to see what's happening. I can't run. If I do, they'll hear me, or see me, or I'll fuck up and fall…

"…You looked good, too," Corn says softly, and he reaches up and takes his hat off, setting it carelessly aside. It's obvious now what I'm intruding on, and I despise myself for coming here, for being annoyed by their closeness, and I'm terrified and I have no idea what to do to help myself. Soda's eyes are wary when he asks:

"When?"

Corn doesn't say anything. I've never seen him kiss anyone before. It's disgusting, yes, but…I don't know. I've never realized that he has a good mouth for kissing, I guess is what I want to say. He pushes against Soda's mouth and sort of presses his teeth into Soda's top lip for a second, and I see them both shudder, and I do, too, but for a _way_ different reason. Soda closes his eyes uncomfortably. He's probably never kissed anyone before. Never kissed a girl, anyway, I think bitterly, feeling my stomach toss, watching them. I can't understand how Corn can do this…all of the respect I had for him before is slowly diminishing with each passing second. _He was with GUM_, is all I can think, and I can't, by any means, comprehend how he could go from an absolute hottie to…_Soda_…even on the rebound. Nobody who's dated a woman like Gum could _ever_ want this.

God, I don't get it…

Corn pulls away and kisses Soda's hooked nose with all the tenderness of a mother kissing her newborn child. All I can do is watch, wide-eyed, sickened, bewildered. Soda buries his thick fingers in Corn's hair, and the greasy blonde flip knots with dark, green-gloved knuckles. Corn's eyes are the oddest shade of sky blue, watery and gazing with unexplained passion into that ugly bastard's face. Everything about this seems all too familiar, and I want it all to stop, because it feels rehearsed, and I hate knowing what's coming. I'm horrified of what's lurking there, just after.

"…Y-you're stunning," Soda whispers, and my mouth gapes open. _What?!_ Corn is anything _but_ stunning. He's plain, ugly, dirty, greasy, scrawny…what the hell is Soda talking about…?! This is like some awful soap opera… "…Corn…nngh…you…you're so beautiful…" Oh, wahh. Corn buys it, like some deluded four-year-old, and he runs his palm over Soda's jaw in that lover's way…God, I wish they would stop it…

"…Shh…" Corn breathes, leaning forward again, but barely allowing their lips to touch. He closes his eyes. "…Montgomery…"

…Montgomery. Is that…Soda's real name…?!

Soda's hands pull at the front of Corn's jacket, jerking the sleeves down his arms and leaving Corn sitting there in his Rudie shirt in the dim moonlight and city light from down below. I shiver. It feels strangely cold, up here. And my leg is falling asleep. Soda runs his hands up Corn's bare arms and pushes the sleeves up, gripping his bony shoulders. I've never realized how thin Corn actually is, before: It's kind of fucked up to see him sans-jacket. His hands are pulling at Soda's jacket, too, and he slides it off of him gingerly, revealing a stained white tee shirt that Soda must wear every day. Corn doesn't seem to care, though, running his hands over every inch of the filthy fabric, gripping loose sections on Soda's ribs and urging their bodies closer together. They're facing each other, now, their mouths locked together grotesquely, and I'm feeling sick, but whether it's from disgust or fear or something else, I honestly have no idea.

Soda's hands, to my horror, are edging down Corn's body. And suddenly, out of nowhere, Corn pulls away.

…There's silence. I'm petrified at the thought of sneezing or coughing or breathing the wrong way. Soda's face is full of hurt and…what I translate to be terror. "…What…what's wrong?" he asks frantically, and Corn shakes his head carefully.

"Nothing. I just…don't feel right, right now," he says, and it's obvious that not even he really understands what he's saying. I get it, though. He senses me. My presence. My heart sounds like a series of gunshots in my head. Soda flinches, though, gets it wrong, and looks off into the distance, like he's watching something immensely fascinating that doesn't exist at all. The silence is deafening, combined with my pulse.

"…W-what…so…you don't want to be here anymore?" Soda asks, his voice full of so much audible pain that I almost feel sorry for him. He keeps on staring out at nothing. "You want to go home…?"

"No," Corn replies softly, and he looks up into Soda's face, his mouth curved down in concern. "…No, it's not that. I love it here…I…I love being with you…"

"…Right," Soda murmurs. "I know. That's not what I meant."

There's another earsplitting quiet. I hear my own breathing, heavy, louder than it should be. I pray to god that they can't hear me. Corn moves a fraction of an inch closer to Soda, but enough so that their chests are pressed together again. "…Don't be like that. You know how I feel. Why the hell would I back out after it hasn't even been a month…?"

Soda looks down at him, his yellow eyes watering, on the verge of spilling over. He looks so much less intimidating, when he's about to cry. "…Say it," he pleads. It's beyond confusing to hear that tone, from him. "…Corn…"

Corn brushes his bangs out of his face, and pushes over in an unmistakably sexual way, his mouth close to Soda's ear and his hand gripping his shoulder, and I can't hear it but I can read his lips when he says the words.

_Monty…I love you_, he said,_ more than anything else in this world…and with all of my heart…_

A tremor rips through Soda's body, and my body stiffens when he grips Corn's face with both of his hands and pulls Corn into him, and still, the third time, it's beyond surreal to watch, like some horrible Lifetime movie: something so bizarre and frightening that you can't bear to look away. I can't even feel guilty about watching them, anymore. _He was with GUM_, I think again and again and again, my mind blank as I watch him run his hands up Soda's arms and press deeper. I catch a glimpse of tongues. Dear god. It's strangely fascinating, while it is horrible. They're being gentle with one another, that much I can tell. The way they're kissing is not unfamiliar, and…it would be sweet…almost romantic…if I weren't an intruder on this scene. If it weren't so…_fucked up._ Ugh…and if they both weren't…so _ugly._

I can't deny that they both love each other, though. Corn just proved that, to me. And even if Soda didn't say it back, the way he begged to hear it from Corn was evidence enough for me. Corn's hair falls into his face, and Soda pulls back for a moment, kisses his eyelids, and Corn sighs quietly. "…I…I do want to go home…" he whispers. "I don't want to fuck here…something's not right…we should go back to the Garage…"

Soda hesitates, seems a little more understanding, this time. "What's wrong? What's not right…?"

"…I'm uncomfortable. I'm _never_ uncomfortable."

"…"

Soda's face turns the most impressive shade of red I've ever seen in my life, and it's obvious that he's flattering himself. _Oh, stop it,_ I think, my own face red, from embarrassment and anger. _You probably couldn't fuck your way out of a condom._ My entire body aches from crouching. I'm scowling. And suddenly, I don't exactly remember why.

…I'm out of place.

…I don't belong here.

Imagining someone eavesdropping on a conversation between me and Gum…god, I don't know what I would do if I ever found out. Guilt suddenly floods me, fast, icy, painful. Shit. You know…I wouldn't have really cared, all that much, if I had just stayed back…if I had just minded my own goddamn business…I would've been annoyed, maybe, but, Christ…

Soda touches his forehead to Corn's. "…We can head back, if you want…we can use my room…"

"Okay…"

…I shouldn't know this. I shouldn't have seen this. My chest hurts, for some inexplicable reason, and I don't even care anymore. I slip away, only thinking of what a terrible person I am, unable to even think of how disgusted I was by the whole situation: only focused on how much of an asshole I am for intruding on that. _I should've known_, I think bitterly. _I should've known that was what they were doing. God…the last thing I need to do is ruin another…relationship…for Corn…he'd kick me out if he knew…nngh, fuck…thank god they didn't see me…_

I find myself back in my own bed, somehow, and angry thoughts like that continue on for about fifteen minutes in my head. Then I hear them come in, and I try to ignore the quiet shuffling, a low murmur, the sound of the door of the room adjacent to mine closing quietly. A weird thud, then the bed creaking, first just once, then steadily, the rapid beat synonymous with the way my heart was pounding behind that air vent not even an hour ago. Corn chokes, and I hate him for it, squeezing my eyes shut and clenching my head backward into my pillow. I hate him for it, even though I know he can't help it. I hear Soda moan his name. Then Corn's weak cry, a final protest of the bed, and it's over.

Simple.

Simple, damnit…that's what life is. Or at least, what it's supposed to be. I'll never forget what just happened. I'll never forget the way they looked at each other. Fuck. I feel like such shit…like I'll never deserve to be forgiven for what I did…

And I fall asleep secretly hoping that someday, I'll understand why.


	4. Friction

Mmm...more _Physics_.

This part isn't really set up like a story, so much as it is...several short pieces all mashed together into one. It's from Soda's POV...and I guess it's more like random memories that he's having than an actual scene somewhere.

On that note...lots of line breaks. **ALSO LOTS OF SEX **(hence the rating boost) **SO IF YOU DON'T LIKE THAT SORT OF THING I SUGGEST YOU SKIM THOSE PARTS.** Or...just don't read this chapter. But that would make me sad.

* * *

**Friction**

A Jet Set Radio Future fanfiction by Bagatelle

"…_Kono bodi…yohodo uruwashii…_" he murmurs, his lips crushed, cold, against my burning skin. His hair is matted to his head, thick, full, trails of blonde darkened by water that's pouring over us steadily, and I press my cheek into his, feel the strange coolness of his body when he wraps around me, an arm against tile, one hand brushing the plastic sheet—the only thing between us and everything—when he reaches up and massages something invisible over the contours of my chest. I grab his head and pull him into me, shuddering when he breathes my name, barely audible over the sound of the water. I kiss him and run my hands through his hair, my fingers caught in shampoo and sweat.

_This body…so beautiful…_

It's not. But I still let myself feel flattered.

* * *

I don't find our relationship _odd._ It's supposed to be a secret, but people seem to know: Beat looks at us, confused, when we just stand there, smoking together. Gum will look at me like she's trying to melt my face off of my skull…not that she didn't do that before, but now it looks like she's trying even _harder._ Sometimes Rhyth will smile at me, or Clutch will look away. Little things like that, but nobody ever says a word. I'm glad for that. It's less real, for them, that way: if they don't vocalize it. For now, it's just a fantasy. Some fucking dream of theirs. I don't want them in on it, anyway. Thinking about us. That's not their fucking business. They wouldn't get it, anyway, and I'm never in the mood to explain. The little glances they exchange let me know that they only think of it one way, and maybe it's easier if they do. 

_Oh. He's fucking the leader._

Shit. I don't even think of him as my _leader_, anymore. I barely did to begin with. For Christ's sake, he's not my _leader._ He's my _friend._

* * *

It's three in the morning, and we're at the supposed future site of the Rokkaku Expo Stadium, racing in the dark to the sound of Koto Stomp pouring out of our wrist radios. Tuned in to the Professor, as usual. This place smells like gasoline and rubber: "like the old Garage used to," Corn says to me, but I can't remember that much about the old Garage. I was only there for a few weeks before the GG's broke up the first time. I was still Slate, back then, and he was Tab, but I really try not to think about shit that happened before last year, just 'cause it hurts less to do that. I tell him that I don't remember that, and he passes me, and I run into a wall 'cause I can't see shit in the dark. He hears me fall and laughs, and it reminds me of something good, but I'm not really sure what. Maybe…sharing cake on his twenty-first birthday. The one he made himself, 'cause nobody else remembered. Going to Rokkaku-Dai Heights and eating chocolate cake that tasted bad 'cause he forgot to put eggs in it, and him making me sing to him and grinning so stupidly when I gave in and did it. 

He comes back and helps me up, and I know right then that we've stopped racing. We roll into the pit, me rubbing my nose where it's bruising, and he points up, gesturing to the surprisingly bright moon that's over us. It's waning tonight, third quarter, and I'm still staring at it when he slips his jacket off and throws it behind himself, reaching down and unbuckling his skates. "…Kind of romantic," he mentions nonchalantly, and I blink out of my zone and look at him, instead, with his bare arms and socks with holes. I pull my jacket off, too—he tells me it gets in the way—and he smiles, his teeth oddly white between his thick lips, even though he smokes more than I do. I nod.

"If you say so," I mutter. He runs a hand up my forearm and makes the hair on several parts of my body stand on end. I hope he knows that he can do that. I grab his arms and push him back into the wall, careful not to tread on his feet, since I'm still wearing my skates. He falls back and is quiet, very quiet as I work my way down his body, kissing and pinching the scars on his chest and stomach, his nipples, his navel. His pants are easy enough to deal with. He groans softly when I first touch him, but he's always silent, the only signs of pleasure or displeasure being his trembling jaw, and his hands grasping fruitlessly at the wall behind him. Eventually he reaches out and feels for my skull, I guess to know that I'm really there, and he digs his fingernails into my ears when he cums, and the pain is enough for me to know that he couldn't help himself.

I spit on the ground and don't complain, 'cause I love how fucking high he looks.

* * *

I don't think that the sex is very good. It's not _bad_, though. And I'll be damned if I'd ever give it up for sex with anyone else. The fact that it's not very good…doesn't matter to me very much, though. We both get off. That's the important thing. And the fact that he trusts me with his body is just something else. It doesn't have to be great. We can both still make each other feel really fucking good. That's all that matters to me in regards to the sex. I don't care if it hurts sometimes, afterward. Instant gratification. And the expressions on his face always stun me, even as memories. I had no idea I could make somebody feel like this. I never thought anybody would love me enough to let me touch them like this, least of all _him_. 

I always thought that he just wanted to be my friend. And I was always afraid, for that same reason.

* * *

I get drunk one night. We're in my room, so I guess it's alright, and I lie face-down on my bed, barely paying attention when he straddles me and kisses up my back. He's probably buzzed, too. I snort when I feel his fingers fumbling around with his pants, and then mine, and that familiar hardness on my lower back. He stops for a second before his hand slips again and he digs a finger into me, and it's a weird pain that shouldn't be there, but I clench my jaw and rock back into him, too hammered to say no, maybe even _wanting_ to switch sides, for once. I feel very little through my haze, in a fog on a boat in the middle of the ocean, numb to everything but the feeling of the waves that rock me. I feel very little, but what I do feel is strangely satisfying. 

I wake up the next morning with my pants down and my ass still in the air, him slumped over my legs and snoring, and one bitch of a nauseous headache catching up with me, fast. I get out of bed and have just enough time to zip my pants up before I throw up on my skates. I swear and that wakes him up.

I spend a good part of that day cleaning my blades, and he brings me aspirin and ginger ale every few hours, always with a weird, happy smile on his face. It's kinda funny, 'cause if he had thrown up on my skates, too, I think I would've kicked him in the face.

* * *

He tells me that he worries a lot about dying. Both him and me. He says he really doesn't know what would happen, if one of us got shot and killed by the Rokkaku, or just…some other idiot with a gun. I think he's more likely to die than I am, and I think that actually scares me more than the thought of my own death does. I mean…I know that…if he's gone…who will I have? Nobody. Nobody else gives a shit about me. Nobody else talks to me or even really _looks_ at me. Nobody's interested in being my friend. If I lost him, I would have no reason to live. Skating doesn't mean that much to me in comparison to him, and the weird way that he loves me, passionate and hesitant and fucked twice over. 

I tell him all that. And he looks at me like he knows something that it takes me a second to figure out. I guess I'd kill myself, if he died. I guess I would. He seems to know it, so it must be true. He's a fuckin' _genius_, after all. For some reason, he looks even sadder. Like it hurts him to know that I'd be in that much pain. For now, though, I'm fine. I feel good. To show him that, I kiss him hard and run my hands over his waist, but he's shaking too much, so we can't do anything really interesting. I think he'd cry if he didn't know how upset it makes me. That's even more depressing.

* * *

There's an old car that we're particularly fond of down in the depths of Rokkaku-Dai Heights, abandoned by an even older park, with a rusted slide and animals on giant springs that I guess some kids must've ridden on at some point. It's not that the car is so amazing or anything—hell, I'd go so far as to say it's a shitpile on wheels—but it's got cloth seats in it that smell like weed and Burger King, and it's really nice to lay in on cold winter days when the wind is too violent to stand outside for very long. We've had sex in that car a few times, on days like that: when it was just fuckin' freezing, and we felt crazy for going out there in the first place. Corn is really thin, so he gets cold pretty easy, even though he wears that lined jacket and that goofy hat all the time. And my ears and nose get cold, with the wind blasting on them: it feels like it's cutting the skin clean off. 

I remember fucking in that car, and I remember how cold we both were: the way I could feel his bones through his shirt, like icicles under frozen muscle. I remember his lips were tinted blue, and I unzipped my jacket and had him put his arms through the sleeves while I wrapped my arms around him and lay on top of him, struggling to keep him warm through the simple friction of our bodies and that feeble lock to keep the heat we made inside. His teeth chattered when he kissed me, and I remember that, when he fell asleep beneath me, I was afraid he was going to die of hypothermia or some shit like that. I didn't know what to do, so I shook myself out of my jacket and just wrapped him up in it as best I could, and rubbed his hands to keep them warm.

I fell asleep because I got so cold. When I woke up, we were in some closed-off, abandoned house, and I was spread out beside a fire and covered with my jacket. A hole in the roof let smoke get out, and I remember that my head was in his lap, his hands gently rubbing my red, freezing ears to get the blood running through them again. I remember how weird that was, to me, and I remember him running his palms over my forehead and massaging my temples when he noticed that I was awake, and reveling in how good it felt. I think we spent the night in that house, but I couldn't say for sure. It was a really nice night, though.

* * *

I don't really know why I feel like this about him. I just love him a whole hell of a lot. I guess 'cause he's not a fake person at all, and he's always honest with me about everything: never afraid to tell me what's on his mind. I admire how brave he is, and, secretly, how much the others respect him. It's not that I really _like_ any of them in particular, but…I don't hate them—except for Gum—and…I guess I think it'd be kind of nice to have some of their respect. I think sometimes that I might have a bit of it, though. Yoyo and Cube seem impressed by how close I am to Corn, sometimes. Like they've wanted to be good friends with him, but never really had the guts to get closer to him on purpose. I don't know, though. Maybe they're just jealous of me. Maybe I'm just fuckin' with my own head.

* * *

Growing up, I had a shitty childhood. I don't like to think about it. Ever since I was a kid, though, I've always had dreams of someday being an adult and living in a nice house somewhere, with a lot of money, a huge yard, and somebody to come home to at the end of each day and wake up with every morning. That's my biggest secret, I guess. That, and my middle name is "Gerald". 

I feel like a pussy for wanting a stable relationship more than anything else, but I guess it's not so bad. Still, I haven't told Corn about my childhood dream. Part of me feels like I should, but it's embarrassing, to me. I've thought about _him_ being that person, before. I've thought about us getting older together. Being old men and still being as close as we are now. It's a little creepy to think of us as old, wrinkly, senile motherfuckers, but it's kind of sweet at the same time, and I get this weird warm feeling when I think about being seventy years old, sitting on a porch somewhere in the country, holding hands with him and watching the clouds blow by. In that same thought, I look over at him and brush sheets of thin silver hair out of his face, and he looks back at me before I say anything, so he can read my lips when I tell him I love him. He's deaf, I guess 'cause we listened to too much loud music as young men, but he still smiles at my words, and his lips will still be as warm then as they are now.

Fifty years from now. It's kind of strange to want it to last that long, 'cause all my instincts tell me it won't. He looks at me sometimes and smiles, though, and my heart aches 'cause I honestly want it all so, _so_ bad.

Corn. God. I'd cut my legs off to have a future like that with you. I really would. Not a second of hesitation. Not a single goddamn second.

* * *

Gum tells me one day that I'm disgusting. That she knows what I've been doing and that I'm sick in the head for it all. "You get him drunk," she tells me. "You get him drunk and you _rape_ him. He wouldn't do it if you didn't get him so wasted that he passes out before you start. He doesn't even know what's going on, does he?! You sick _bastard!_" I ignore her. I don't give a shit what she has to say. She doesn't know shit about what's going on between the two of us. 

She tells him, screams it at him, and I go into his room the minute she's gone. He bursts into laughter at the sight of me, so thrilled at the thought of passing out from drunkenness that he proclaims _we're taking Beat's vodka and we're going to the Skyscraper District._ We do just that. And we get so wasted that neither of us can explain how or why we wake up in the mouth of the dinosaur at Chuo Street, wearing clothes that aren't familiar to either of us, and both of us wearing one of the other's skates.

We still haven't found out what happened to our other clothes. I don't think we ever will.

* * *

Corn smokes weed, sometimes. It doesn't bother me much—I don't particularly like drugs, but, as long as he isn't tripping balls with Clutch on Ecstasy Fridays, it's fine—he just gets really serious when he's high. I thought that drugs were supposed to loosen you up. Weed makes Corn very tense, almost _angry_, and a lot more frantic during sex. That's all I've really noticed that changes when he's high. He gets quiet and doesn't like talking, and he gets this look on his face like he's thinking hard about something. He almost never smiles when he's up, and I guess that pisses me off, 'cause it's just not very _him._ He smiles a lot when he's straight. That's one of the things I like about him. He smiles a lot, but not enough for it to be annoying, and it's a really sincere smile, too, like he means it every time. When he's high, he tells me he wishes _I'd_ smile more. But I can't even think about smiling when he looks at me like somebody's just died.

* * *

His eyes are blue. Sky-blue. Beautiful. I've never seen more dazzling eyes. When I look into them, I really do feel like I'm floating somewhere, alone with him in that breathtaking sea. I never really noticed his eyes until recently, you know? I'm not like that. All I think about is fucking him. Never had the chance to look hard enough. 

I'm kidding, you dumbass. I've had wet dreams about his eyes, and his hair, and his lips.

God, his _lips_.

My favorite part of him, by far. Fuck it if he has a woman's mouth. A full, luscious, soft mouth. I'd much rather have it be sensual like this than paper-thin man-lips like I've got. His mouth is gorgeous. Perfect.

I can't even say how crazy it makes me when he kisses my nose. He says he feels the same way about my nose as I do about his lips. I don't understand that, but I don't care. I guess it doesn't matter if I'm ugly in my own eyes. Maybe he feels the same way about himself.

* * *

His body is cold against mine tonight, and it reminds me of a time we spent in a car, once, a few months ago. We're in my bed, and I like this feeling: being naked save our underwear, spooning him, the sound of his breathing humming through his chest and into mine. I wonder why he's so cold: we're covered with a sheet and a blanket, the same things I always have on my bed. He grunts a little in his sleep when I move my hips against his, and I close my eyes, breathing into his neck to warm him up, if even just a tiny bit. His hand touches mine completely sub-consciously, and for some reason, I murmur those three stupid words into his deaf, sleeping ear. He says nothing in response, hearing nothing, his knuckles barely touching my fingertips. 

I lean back down and press my mouth into his shoulder, exhaling warmth into his ever-freezing skin until I fall asleep, too.


End file.
